


Such a Hell in Your Heart and Your Head

by Vaecordia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ?? is that a tag, I've never written poetry before, M/M, Not Peter, Poetry, also slightly ??? dubious on the topic of consent, martin's poetry, non-graphic descriptions of sex, please forgive my poetry, sacrificial consent, self-sacrificing martin, someone hold this man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-01 14:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: Martin's reflections on his position and relationship with Peter.





	Such a Hell in Your Heart and Your Head

_(one)  
_ _he’s a frothing storm  
_ _greyed, swirling blue  
_ _his smile is cruel and cold  
_ _his eyes crash against my soul  
_ _and even if i’m drowning  
_ _i don’t care_

Martin’s almost forgotten what it feels like to write. His months have been plastered with galring-yellow post-its and memos, scribbled comments on statements that he’s already forgotten. But when he bleeds his heart onto the paper through the ink of a fountain pen, it feels like an old friend he’s forsaken for all too long.

As the pen slides gently against the paper, the quiet ticking of his nightstand clock the only sound apart from the quiet scratch of the pen, it feels… freeing, in a way he hasn’t felt free for longer than he can remember now.

He’s scared. And the only way he can express that is the words flowing from him.

The way Peter had introduced himself. Smiled, looked at him. Strolling into Elias’ office, all too comfortable with it already. Better the devil he knows, and he now wishes Elias were still at the Institute. At least he knew what to expect. Peter has all his cards carefully concealed from view, and Martin doubts that he’ll be allowed to remain blissfully unaware of his hand − at least, until it’s far too late.

Martin has spent weeks observing him, doing what Peter asks of him if only to _try_ and make sure the others remain safe. He’s not too keen to test exactly how many safeguards Elias put in place for his employees before handing the Institute over to Peter. So in the meantime, he’ll bottle his fear and toss it into this ocean of words, smudged ink and paper. Let it sail, until he finally pours it onto a page.

He stares at the single stanza he’s written, and hates every inch of it. Not because it’s poor. He hates it because every word is terrifyingly true.

 

_(two)  
_ _he speaks like dusk  
_ _promises tender, soft and sweet  
_ _words of peach pink  
_ _whispers of evening dew −  
_ _and yet the dark threat is always there  
_ _looming and inevitable  
_ _so why am i still falling_

Peter assures him they’re all safe, as long as everything runs smoothly. He’s a ship captain, he reminds him, and tells him of how he likes a ship running well under his control. He takes care to make sure Martin knows of the horrors that have befallen ill-behaving seafarers and subordinates. But always, he always says the words in the softest tone, his voice a glass-smooth sea, and there’s an unavoidable hardness in it that leaves no potential for misunderstanding.

He tells Martin with honey-laden words how he’s doing a good job, how well he’s doing, and how everything is going so very well. He tells him about how Elias shouldn’t have underestimated him, and Martin wishes Elias were there instead of the utter emptiness that seems to spill from Peter, and it’s sometimes even worse than the feeling of being constantly watched. Even when there’s no one in the room, the overwhelming loneliness has started to take a presence of its own, and Martin hates it. Fears it.

Peter Lukas has promised him fifteen kindnesses and twenty beauties, and Martin trusts absolutely none of them. He’s just as untrustworthy as the rest of the monsters, and he’s sure that none of what he’s said will come true in the sense he wants it to. There’s always some price, always something to pay, always something that costs. But if Martin can pay the price, then he desperately will.

Peter claims Elias underestimated him, but then he’s doing the exact same thing as Elias did, just with his own added flair. Martin hopes that he’ll figure out whatever the hell it is that can get Peter dislodged from his position at the top before Peter hurts someone. What it is, he doesn’t know, but he’ll die trying if that’s what it takes.

He can’t bear to have his colleagues’... friends’ pain on his conscience.

 

_(three)  
_ _he touches me with avoidance  
_ _treats me with kindness, gentleness  
_ _but his emptiness tears at me  
_ _and i’m waking up alone  
_ _even when he’s right there_

The first time Peter lays a hand on him isn’t bad. It’s just a glancing touch, a pressure on his shoulder that’s gone as soon as it came. It doesn’t even come with the overwhelming sense of dread, the drowning sense of loneliness he’d expected. It’s just a touch on his shoulder. And then it’s gone. He didn’t think much anything of it at the time − and now, he realises that’s probably when everything went wrong. Where he fell for the trap.

Ever carefully crafted around him, the net he’s now tangled up in and it’s impossible for him to leave, and Peter’s smile never wavered the whole time and Martin was too damn blindsided by it to care about how he was weaving a trap for him with his words and reassurances, balancing the fear that Martin so very poorly concealed, and the company he so deeply longed − still longs for.

The second time it’s an arm around Martin’s shoulder. A veil of comfort, an iron grip of warning. Maybe even possessiveness. Martin’s not sure he wants to find out the difference. He knows he will, whether he wants it or not.

It’s only once he bends over Elias’ desk for Peter to explore, have at at his heart’s desire, that Martin feels that invisible line between draw impossibly taut, as if it may snap at any moment. Martin’s lonely. Peter is part of the Lonely. Martin’s looking for company, someone, _anyone_ to be with. He misses everyone − Jon, since he woke up, feels like a ghost in his memory, what with how Martin’s avoided him, he’s barely seen Daisy, Basira and Melanie avoid him. He’s landed right in Peter’s hands.

But he knows that Peter feeds on his loneliness. And perhaps that’s where he’s weakest. Peter’s luring him in, and he’s taking the bait.

 

_(four)  
_ _he kisses me with my agony  
_ _my tears on his tongue,  
_ _salt on his smile,  
_ _and it feels like i bleed alone  
_ _but i hate that i love it._

Martin’s hand trembles when he puts his pen down, and he forces himself to focus his mind off of all the thoughts buzzing inside of it, refusing to give him respite.

He was right, from the beginning. Peter has a weakness, and it’s his lust. Not his lust for people, he’s far too disinterested in humanity for that. His lust for the despair and loneliness of an isolated soul. And Martin gives him just that.

He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and makes himself some tea, but none of it really helps relieve the chill that’s settled in his bones.

Martin knows that what he’s doing isn’t healthy for him, but then again he doesn’t care what any of this matters to him. As long as it matters for the others. He won’t lose Jon, and Daisy, Basira, or Melanie, the way… No, he’s promised to do this for them.

He’s got Peter hook, line and sinker, the way Elias was there with underestimating him, and Peter’s doing the exact same. He can feel Elias’ eyes on his back, watching him go about his day in his office, record statements and do research. He doesn’t care what he thinks. None of this is up to him anymore. It’s solely between him and Peter, and whatever Peter is planning. He has to figure it out before it’s too late.

And he just might. Maybe, if Peter thinks that Martin’s easy prey − and that’s not a hard assumption to make, Martin thinks, when everyone seems to hold that very same opinion − he’ll stop thinking about it. And then Martin can catch that love for abandonment and turn it around on him. The Fears aren’t kind, and a man who represents one of them must fear it as well.

It’s easier said than done, though, when his skin feels like it wants to peel off, singe off his body, when the rings under his eyes carve deeper and darker, and he feels more leaden each and every day. And yet, he’s terrified when each day, it feels easier to fall into that isolation. So much easier. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dostoyevsky's quote: "With such a hell in your heart and your head; How can you live? How can you love?"


End file.
